


bench seat

by beamkatanachronicles



Category: No More Heroes (Video Games)
Genre: (is light hate sex a thing), Anal Sex, Hate Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex in a Car, it's not a ghm ship until they bang in a car
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-27 11:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19790260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beamkatanachronicles/pseuds/beamkatanachronicles
Summary: "Your back seat's... really loud.""It's an old car," he replies dully. "What d'you want me to do about it?"





	bench seat

**Author's Note:**

> please note that i was CYBERBULLIED into this you know who you are

It's fucking sweltering in this car.

Birkin doesn't even remember _why_ they picked the back seat in the first place. For all the added comfort-- his bench seat's a step above the ground, or Travis' pancake-flat excuse for a futon-- it still means they've gotta fuck inside a poorly-ventilated tin can. His AC's been burned out for years, and rolling down all the windows doesn't make a difference. Even at this time of night, the summer heat is oppressive: the air's thick, disgustingly humid. It bears down upon them from all directions. What little they're both still wearing is drenched and clinging to their skin. Travis' forehead, bobbing in and out of Birkin's vision as he blows him, drips slowly with sweat.

Right. It was _his_ idea. All of the bad ones typically are. On cue, Travis pulls his mouth away from the head of his dick. The sound's wet, obscene, and just barely too loud to be accidental. Birkin groans in protest, feeling his cock twitch: the whole length is slick with Travis' spit, aching in the absence of that wet heat. In reply, Travis coughs once, clearing his throat, then makes a show of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It's obvious that he's stifling the rest. Trying too hard. Birkin unsticks his back from the car door behind him and says nothing. He hates when he pulls this shit, but it's hot as all hell-- he can give the guy a second to catch his breath. He takes the moment's respite to wipe away the sweat gathering on his own brow.

Outside the car window, the last embers of the campfire are burning low, red-orange flames sputtering against the dark. The light just catches the pale blue of Travis' eyes. They narrow up at Birkin: waiting, petulant. Like he's bracing to get bitched at all over again.

Birkin rolls his eyes. "Just lay back," he grunts. Travis makes a half-hearted, non-committal noise, and Birkin immediately regrets not going off on the obnoxious little shit. "What? Not my fault you got ambitious. Goddamn pervert."

"Maybe it tasted like deepthroating a sock, fuckhead."

Travis moves in shadow, maybe an inch, and Birkin flings his arm out reflexively. Half a second later, the packet of lube that should've bounced off his face is in the palm of his hand. "Liked you better with your mouth full."

"Oh--" he's scuttling back like a crab: it's so stupid that Birkin nearly laughs in spite of himself. "God _dammit_ , the fuckin' Astros, huh?"

"Quit mouthing off and make yourself useful."

"Whatever." Travis rifles through the pockets of his discarded jeans on the floor and pulls out a second packet. He rips it open, then shifts, half-reclining against the door: as if in protest, the cushion creaks loudly. He frowns, then bounces a bit-- the seat strains under his weight again.

"What are you doing."

"Your back seat's... really loud."

"It's an old car," he replies dully. "What d'you want me to do about it?"

"Nothing." Travis pauses, glancing down at Birkin's erection. Slowly, his eyes trail up the man's body, and his mouth spreads in a wide, shit-eating grin. "It's just, y'know..." He hangs on that conditional half-statement like he's dangling it above his head. Thinks he’s being real dramatic, probably. if Birkin weren’t so hard he’d consider kicking him out. "Fooling around in a car like _this?_ I've had this one on VHS since before my balls dropped." He snorts then spreads his legs, teasing newly-slicked fingers up against his asshole— and, for effect, he _whines_ like a goddamn porn star. Or a dying animal, more like. " _A-ahn,_ hmmf, oh _yeah_ baby, squirt your baby batter up my butthole with your _throbbing_ meat cannon—"

" _Christ._ " Birkin, face already flushed red from heat, goes a little purple in disgust. "Do you _have_ to do this shit?"

Undeterred, he barks out a laugh. "C'mon... mmh." Travis fucks himself on two fingers, back slightly arched as he pumps in and out. This time, he sighs for real. "Ain't doing it for your ginormous mondo-monster cock? You at least gonna put this on Pornh-- wh-- ow!"

His head hits the door with a hollow _thump_ , and then the back seat with a wheezing of springs: Birkin's squeezed his fingers tight around Travis' thighs and yanked him a few inches closer. Travis licks his lips, unphased.

"Stop talking," he growls low; Birkin slips the head of his cock inside him, pushing in deep. Travis reaches for the door handle behind his head, tips his head back, and shudders out a satisfied exhale-- he's quiet, finally, or at least not saying real words anymore, stroking his own length in messy rhythm, grinding his hips closer to Birkin's as he thrusts in and out of his ass.

"H-hey--" he manages after a while, words all lopsided, "What-- hah, what the hell, I'm on something sticky. You screw someone else in here or just never clean up after Junior?"

Birkin grits his teeth hard enough that he feels the enamel scrape from the inside of his skull, like he's slammed his whole weight onto the car's brakes. He grunts, his breathing ragged, and keeps going. Rougher. His fingers, nails blunted and dirty, dig into Travis' skin hard.

The seat creaks. Travis squirms, choking out a sharp and broken moan, as Badman fucks him hilt-deep.


End file.
